


the mirror lies

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grant Ward Isn't Hydra, Hydra Grant Ward, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: From a certain perspective, Grant's latest escape attempt goes almost too well.





	the mirror lies

**Author's Note:**

> **Very important warning:** I'm posting this fic which will **NEVER BE FINISHED** because I put too much work into it to leave it languishing forever on my computer. It doesn't cut off abruptly mid-scene but it does end without any resolution so you'd better be prepared for that.

The cargo container door opens. Grant twists back from the bright light. His training tells him to stand, to fight tooth and nail for freedom. Training doesn’t do much good when you’ve been deprived of food and water for days. He feels so empty, so threadbare that it’s a miracle his body hasn’t just caved in and turned to dust. His only consolation really is that Gregorovich won’t be able to torture him too long since he’s half-dead already.

“Goat!” one of the men yells. Okay, it’s probably not “goat.” But he’s half-dead and Urdu isn’t one of his better languages.

Someone kicks Grant’s aching ribs and then there’s cursing. (He may not be great at the language but that particular inflection is more or less universal.)

He’s not really clear on what happens next. Likely he blacks out, which fits with the pain in his skull when he comes to. No one’s paying him any mind anymore. There’s only one man left in the container with him and he’s busy looking to the door. The sound of distant gunfire penetrates the container and he actually smiles. It hurts his face and his lips and his teeth and generally all of him but he never thought he’d be smiling again so it’s worth it.

It may or may not be his team out there—for all he knows it’s Gregorovich, unhappy with the price the smugglers are asking but still very eager to get his hands on Grant. Regardless, this is his best chance to escape and that small glimmer of hope is enough to move him.

His stomach rebels but there’s nothing for it to send up so he ignores the feeling the same way he ignores the pain in every inch of his body. Unfortunately, his body seems to feel its needs have been ignored long enough. His feet refuse to lift the way he wants them to, his ankle shifts sideways under him, and he doesn’t so much lunge at the guy as he falls into him. Next thing he knows he’s being slammed against a wall.

He instantly begins to crumple but is held up by hands twisted in his shirt. He has an impression of an angry, bearded face that drops in and out of focus.

“Worth a shot,” Grant says, the words muddled by pain and dehydration. The man grins and pulls back, allowing Grant to see the weapon he’s holding. Cattle prod. Great.

The man’s not stupid—that, or he’s actually used a cattle prod before and understands that electricity can move from one body to another. He shoves Grant hard to keep him upright while he steps back and then there’s only the cattle prod holding him in place. The pain is instant and intense. His head slams back against the wall; his teeth clench so hard they have to be breaking; his vision whites out and he hears an explosion, so loud it must be right on top of him.

He’s moving. Backward, through the air. Cool air, not hot and dry the way it’s been for days. He hits hard concrete and falls limp like a rag doll onto something soft. His body slips off the side of the … bed? He has vague impressions of a door opening and people yelling, voices he knows. He’s so tired though and it doesn’t hurt anymore. He only wants to sleep.

His head lolls against the mattress—it’s definitely a mattress—and he can’t be bothered to care about the figures approaching him.

 

**////////////////////**

 

He comes awake suddenly, heart pounding as he remembers just where he was when he was last conscious. Or, where he was the last time he was fully aware because his memories of falling asleep do not track with the cargo container.

There are restraints on his wrists and ankles—two sets each—and a heavily armed man standing in the corner. There’s also bright light and an IVs replenishing the fluids he lost and a doctor with the SHIELD logo on his lab coat. Relief is like a dip in a cool bath. Grant relaxes and listens to the slowing beep of his heart monitor.

“How long?” he asks. His voice sounds better than it did when he was making smartass remarks in the cargo container but it’s still not good. He swallows down the rasping. “Where am I?” The unspoken question of course is where the hell is his team? And why is he being restrained?

The doctor has a terrible poker face. There’s something wrong. Grant doesn’t know what—he can see his fingers and toes moving and now that he’s under proper medical care he doesn’t feel like he’s about to blow away in a light breeze—but it’s bad.

“I’ll get him,” the doctor says to the guard and leaves.

“Get who?” Grant asks. They both ignore him and Grant tugs at his restraints in frustration. Before the clatter of metal on metal dies down, the guard’s ICER is leveled at Grant.

Slowly, Grant eases back against his pillows. Best as he can, he holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. It takes a full minute for the guard to holster his weapon and his hand stays on it after.

Soon—not nearly soon enough—the door opens again. It’s not the doctor. It’s Coulson, followed by May and Skye. Relief hits Grant all over again. May gestures for the guard to leave while Coulson looks at a tablet.

“What’s going on?” Grant asks. It hasn’t escaped his notice who’s missing and he begins to worry the restraints on him are preemptive. “Sir?” Despite his best efforts, desperation leaks into his tone and that gets Coulson’s attention. His eyes land on Grant and they’re … different.

Grant was once sent into a South American jungle where the locals had claimed to have seen a very Hulk-like creature. To prep him, SHIELD gave him access to some of their footage of the behemoth. For the most part, he looked just like you’d expect. Angry. Wrathful. But there was one shot, when he thought he was safe only to discover he wasn’t. That’s how Coulson looks now. Fearful, sad, hurt, and absolutely determined that he won’t be made to feel that way again.

He hands the tablet to Skye—who doesn’t even glance at it—and approaches the head of the bed. He hits a button on the wall to lift Grant into a sitting position.

“Thank you, sir,” Grant says cautiously. He’s not sure what’s going on here, but whatever it is, he’s not gonna get anywhere by disrespecting authority.

Coulson seems to find the comment funny. He chuckles mirthlessly and reaches for Grant’s arm, above the restraints.

“Can you tell me why I’m chained to a bed?” Grant asks as Coulson turns his arm over. “And where the others are?” Coulson doesn’t seem inclined to answer, too busy staring at Grant’s arm, so he looks to Skye and May. Neither give him even any hint of an answer. “Can you tell me anything? Sir-” He licks his lips, decides to pull at some heart strings. “I’ve been held and tortured for at least two weeks, possibly more. I was under radio silence for a solid _day_ before that. I’d really love any information that might explain why …” He lets it hang, unsure just what question to give voice to.

“Where?” Coulson asks.

“Sir?”

Coulson has seen whatever he’s going to on Grant’s arm and eases into the lone chair beside the bed. “Where were you? When you were in radio silence.”

Grant gives him a long look, unsure just what Coulson’s getting at. His was the loudest voice against Grant’s involvement in this mission. Not because it seemed particularly dangerous at first glance—aside from the one man team of course, but Grant’s used to working alone, operated that way almost exclusively before joining Coulson’s team. No, Coulson’s dissent was because SHIELD wanted to take his specialist, take one of _his_ people and send him in without backup. Grant really wishes he’d paid the man a little more mind.

“Karachi,” he says finally. “One of the smugglers used to work for a drug lord in Russia, a guy I stole some intel from a few year’s back. He made me. I spent a day running through the city before they caught me at the harbor and tossed me into that cargo container you dragged me out of.” Curious looks are exchanged and Grant quickly amends, “Or I thought you did. It might have blown up. I was in a lot of pain at that point.”

He thinks back on the room, the place that doesn’t fit cleanly in his memory.

“Are these because I fell off the bed?” he asks, tugging gently at the restraints. He grins. “I promise not to do it again.”

Coulson’s not listening. He’s taken the tablet back from Skye and is looking something up. Grant’s not usually one for spying on his superiors but he’s getting real tired of the lack of answers. He angles his head for a glimpse of the screen and only manages to see his own face before Coulson leans back in the chair. There’s silence until Coulson gives May a slight shake of his head. May’s expecting that, whatever the hell it means, but she’s not happy about it.

“Fitz is sticking by his theory?” Coulson asks.

“And Mack’s right there with him,” Skye says. “And so are all the other techs we’ve got. The ones who are willing to voice an opinion, anyway. Last time I talked to Fitz, he said something about atoms spinning… I have no idea but he swears it makes sense.”

“Told me the same thing.” Coulson’s mouth is a thin line as he looks Grant over.

“Scars don’t lie,” May says. “There is no way he could’ve …” She shoots Grant a look that’s almost identical to Coulson’s. It’s very creepy when they do that, the whole mom/dad thing. “And his head,” she says, stepping out of her corner for the first time. “What would the point of that even be?”

“What about my head?” Grant asks. So far he’s got more questions than answers out of this little interview and he’s getting real sick of it.

“Name,” Coulson says firmly. “Rank. Serial number.”

Grant isn’t even sure how to respond to that—aside from the obvious, of course. “What are you-”

“Now!” Coulson barks.

“No!” Grant yells, gripping the bedrails.

May takes a half-step closer. Skye’s hand goes to her weapon. Coulson doesn’t flinch.

“Sir, I-” The apology hovers on Grant’s tongue but it’s a lie. He drops his head forward to hold the words back.

He’s not sorry, not a bit. What he is, is frustrated. Whatever’s going on, he’s in the weak position here. He’s gotta play along until he can get what he wants. Which would be fine if there weren’t one very vital piece of information—the only piece that matters—that he still hasn’t gleaned anything on.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and, contrite, raises his head. “Sir. Where is-”

Coulson’s holding the tablet out for him to see, on it is a picture of Grant. He’s unconscious and chained to a bed the same way he is now, except there’s a bandage around his left arm. Coulson swipes the photo away and it’s replaced with another one, almost identical to the first except in this it’s the right arm. The left sports several long, brutal looking scars. All are obvious remains of suicide attempts.

Grant can’t help but look at his arms—his actual arms—just the way Coulson did. They’re smooth, with no signs of … of that.

When he manages to look to the tablet again, Coulson shows him one final image. In this one both his arms are visible and it’s his head that’s bandaged.

“That’s what May meant,” Coulson says, his tone a touch lighter than it’s been so far. “Of all the scars you’ve gotten over the last few months, that’s the only one that’s still there. Only it’s on the wrong side. And too fresh, according to your doctor.”

Grant shakes his head. “I don’t- I don’t remember any of this.” He swallows. “How long has it been? Since Karachi?”

“According to your SHIELD file, you were never in Karachi.”

“But I was,” Grant says. Some of his shock fades as confusion takes hold. Everyone in this room knows about the assignment. There’s no reason to play dumb here, no matter how badly it may have gone. “You even argued against it. You told Hand to go to hell.” He chuckles at the memory but no one shares his humor. “Sir?” he asks.

Coulson leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “There was a little … incident with a device we believe to be of alien origin. It caused an energy surge throughout the base but the only system to suffer any real damage was the force field down in Vault D. It probably wouldn’t have been too bad if the prisoner hadn’t been testing it for weaknesses at the time.”

He shows Grant the tablet again. This time it’s a security feed from above, showing a man with a serious hobo beard pressing his palm to the force field. The shot changes to one directly across from the man and now Grant can see his face—his own face—twisted in pain. The feed cuts out a few seconds later on a burst of white light.

Coulson tucks the tablet into his lap. “When we got down there, we found you. Bloody, filthy, wearing clothes that were wildly different from the ones we gave you. So I’m not completely disinclined to believe Fitz’s theory.”

“Which is?” Grant asks. He is completely lost. None of this makes any sense, to the point that he wouldn’t be surprised if he wakes up soon and realizes it’s all some crazy dream.

“That you’re …” Coulson closes his eyes, obviously having some trouble giving voice to the theory despite his insistence that he might actually buy it.

Luckily Skye doesn’t seem to share his reservations. “From the mirror universe,” she supplies. “Fitz thinks our Ward and you got switched courtesy of the giant alien whatchamacallit in our garage.”

“Thank you, Skye,” Coulson bites out.

“You think,” Grant says slowly, “I’m from a different universe?”

“Yes, we do,” Coulson says, completely serious. “So I only have one question for you: are you HYDRA?”

Grant’s reaction is immediate. He laughs. Loudly. And a lot.

“Oh, you had me going,” he says. His breath is wheezing and his ribs are definitely not gonna forgive him for this anytime soon, but it’s good to laugh again. “I thought you were actually serious there! I should’ve known. Oh, I should’ve known at the Star Trek reference. I can’t believe you guys got me. I can’t believe you guys’d do it right after I almost died! Isn’t there some unspoken rule about laying off the pranks after something like that?”

No one smiles back at him. In fact, Skye looks incredibly uncomfortable and the other two are completely closed off.

“Come on,” Grant says, trying to push down the twist of fear in his gut. “HYDRA? World War Two? That was a little over the top, you’ve gotta admit.”

But no one does and Grant’s good humor dissipates.

“I’m very sorry,” Coulson says. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

He stands and leaves. May gives him her own nod of sympathy. Skye scurries out after them. Grant is left alone with his thoughts and his still unanswered question.

 

 

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

 

 

A world away, Grant wakes up. Bright light, comfortable bed, heart monitor chugging along steadily. He must’ve nearly killed himself again. Except they usually don’t let him wake up until he’s back in his cell and they definitely don’t let people into the bed with him.

And there is someone with him. Someone warm and small, a woman, tucked into his side. Her hand rests over his heart. They also wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave him free of restraints. Which means he’s not in SHIELD custody right now. He surges up, twisting the woman under him and pressing his forearm into her throat to silence her.

Simmons stares up at him with wide eyes. She’s still half-asleep but the adrenaline’s working fast. He can feel her heart pounding.

“Grant,” she gasps, barely audible since he’s cutting off her air supply.

She—is she smiling? She manages to wind one arm through the space between them and cups his cheek in her palm. He’s understandably shocked and drops some of the pressure on her throat. It’s stupid and could get him killed but she doesn’t yell for help. She only goes on smiling as she takes deeper breaths.

“Grant,” she says again and her gentle tone is like a slap. No one’s ever said his name like that. He refuses to analyze the emotions that single word carries or the emotions it brings out in him. “It’s okay.” Her fingers brush his ragged hair. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

He’s not sure how but she holds him there with her smile and her eyes and the way she touches him like he matters. How long has it been since anyone touched him? Not to save his life. Not to beat him down. Just touched him. He leans into her hand, causing her fingertips to touch the scar he got from ramming his head into the walls. Her expression breaks a little and his mouth falls open to reassure her that it doesn’t hurt.

The door slides open before he can.

“Oh! Wow, I-”

Grant’s up and across the room before anyone can think. He knocks Trip off-balance and slips through the door as it shuts. It’s a med-pod; they had him in a _med-pod_. He hits the quarantine button, locking them in. He catches sight of Trip at Simmons’ side. She’s clutching her throat and staring through the window after him. He doesn’t want to know what the look on her face means. He pushes it down and takes stock of his surroundings.

He’s on the Bus.

He’s _on the Bus_.

Something’s happened. Something big. Maybe that base of theirs fell. Maybe they’re on the run. Why they’d bring him along is beyond him but apparently these are people who would put a new med-pod back where the old one was. Which is just deeply disturbing.

There’s cargo between the pod and the lab, which means clothes to replace the hospital gown they’ve got him in. He’s gotta change on the run and grab weapons besides, which gives him time to listen for potential trouble up ahead.

“I want facts,” Coulson is saying, “not conjecture. We need to know exactly what this device did to him.”

“It’s not that simple, sir.”

Fitz’s voice gives Grant pause. He spent months studying the team, learning their strengths and weaknesses, their limits. Unlike Simmons, Fitz can lie, but he’s not a liar. He doesn’t have the ability or the training to change who he is to fool a mark. Which means the Fitz who tried to kill him was real. And this Fitz is not that Fitz.

Grant tucks a gun into the back of the SHIELD issue sweats he’s pulled on and holds another at the ready as he eases around the lab door.

“It’s completely alien,” Fitz goes on. He looks like Fitz. The Fitz of before. His movements are easy and his words flow unhindered. “It’s not even Asgardian, which would give us at least some frame of reference, but this is… Sir, whatever it does, I think we can assume it’s dangerous. I’m not comfortable studying it here.”

That’s when Grant finally notices the thing in the center of the lab. It’s some sort of twisting, crystalline structure that glows a faint green. That really can’t be good.

“I know,” Coulson says heavily, “but the second we hand it over to the brass, they’re gonna lock it away and we’ll never see it again. We’ll never know what it did or how to help Grant.”

Before Grant can puzzle over what that means, he hears footsteps behind him. He turns, sees Trip coming at him, bringing up an ICER. Right. Simmons has authority to override a quarantine order. Grant brings up his gun. Trip fires.

 

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

 

This time they’re smart enough to restrain him. It’s not much, just the restraints attached to the bed to hold the crazies down, but it’s something. He spends a while playing possum in hopes of overhearing something useful but all he hears are people walking past outside. Finally he opens his eyes just in time to see Skye slipping through the door. The sneaky expression she wears is enough to tell him she’s not supposed to be here.

“Skye,” he says and smiles. This is actually a lot sooner than he planned on getting this close to her, so whatever’s going on is a huge step up in his plans.

She stops in her tracks, looking like she’s been caught in the act before relaxing into a smile of her own. “Well, that’s more like it. Jemma said you were probably just disoriented earlier.”

He tugs lightly on the restraints, schooling his expression into one of chagrin. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I got up? I was kind of hoping that was a dream.”

Skye winces in sympathy and touches his shoulder. “Don’t worry. No one’s mad or hurt. You just gave us a little scare, that’s all. Which is an improvement over the last few weeks so all’s forgiven.”

She doesn’t hate him. No one hates him, apparently. He’s not sure what to make of all this and while he’s not stupid enough to rock the boat, he does still need to gather intel if he’s gonna figure out what’s going on here.

“The last few weeks?” he echoes cautiously. He tries to keep his tone neutral, hoping she’ll read into it whatever she wants. She does, but it doesn’t give him much to go on. Her hand lifts away from his shoulder like he burned her and she tips her head away to fiddle with her tablet.

“I’m heading to a briefing now on … well, on all of that. But I figured if you were awake you’d be bored out of your mind waiting for Jemma to come clear you, so I brought you mindless games.”

She’s so much like the old Skye, the one from before his betrayal came to light, that he almost chastises her for wasting time on whatever fad app everyone’s talking about when she could be training. Then he sees where she’s pointing on the tablet screen. Not to a cartoon image of a—is that a squirrel?—but to the icon next to it. This one is solid black and labeled “BUS SECURITY FEEDS—NOT FOR G. WARD.”

“Thanks,” he says and, as best he can with his wrists tied down, takes the tablet from her.

“No problem. Just trying to keep my SO happy.” She winks at him and flounces out of the room.

Grant watches the door shut behind her before tapping the icon. Instantly several windows appear, showing nearly the entire Bus. Skye is hurrying up the stairs to the lounge where Fitz is waiting but other than them, everyone seems to be in the briefing room. Grant taps that window and it expands to fill the screen.

Coulson nods to Skye and Fitz as they enter and then jumps right in. “What do we know?”

Simmons steps forward and pulls of a holographic image of a body scan. She’s pale and her voice shakes but she’s determined to be professional. “He shows no signs of recent injuries, save the wound on his forehead, but he has accumulated massive amounts of scar tissue. In addition to the scars on his forearms, there’s more minor scaring all over his body that wasn’t present before. There’s also evidence of a puncture wound that passes straight through his left foot. All of this is several weeks—if not months—old, putting the injuries well outside the time-frame of his capture.”

She steps away from the table and the images fade. May braces her with an arm at her back. Simmons leans gratefully into the support and fiddles with her collar. As Grant puzzles over her shaken demeanor, the memory of her speaking his name flashes through his mind. There’s an implication there but it’s one he can’t quite grasp onto.

“What about his behavior?” Coulson asks. “You said he attacked you.”

Simmons shakes her head slightly and looks about ready to defend him but Skye jumps in first.

“And you said he was probably just disoriented, waking up here after so much time in captivity?”

Simmons nods gratefully.

Skye smiles back at her before turning to Coulson. “I think she’s right. I talked to him before I came up here.” Coulson looks about ready to ream her out for it so she quickly hurries on. “He’s not under guard or anything! We obviously don’t really think he’s a threat. And he seemed fine—if a little confused about just how long he’d been away,” she finishes heavily.

“That’s in keeping with our hypothesis regarding the 084,” Fitz says. He steps forward, opposite where Simmons stood, and pulls up images of the crystal structure Grant saw in the lab before Trip knocked him out.

“Yours,” Coulson asks dryly, “or Stark’s?”

Fitz sputters indignantly—clearly trying to hide guilt over something.

“Okay, yeah,” Skye says, “maybe we should have been a little more careful about where we were when we filmed Stark’s birthday greeting video, but once he saw the thing in the background it was really his fault for hacking into the SHIELD database.”

“And our private database,” Coulson says. “Which you are in charge of keeping hack-free.”

Skye leans over the table, distorting the holographic image. “Yeah,” she says dreamily, “but hacked by Stark? What a compliment.”

Everyone gives her incredulous looks, including Grant even though she can’t see him. She coughs awkwardly into her fist and pushes away from the table.

“Anyway, what’s done is done, right?”

“Yes. It is. Don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes, sir.” Skye sends Coulson a mock salute, which he ignores.

“The device,” Fitz says pointedly, “can manipulate the flow of energy. We’ve seen its kind of effects before, most notably in London.”

“Not Asgardians,” Coulson groans. “You told me it wasn’t Asgardians.”

“Technically,” Simmons says, her voice small but strong, “the physical distortions in London were caused by natural cosmic forces, the result of millennia of build up.”

“Not making me feel better, guys.”

“This isn’t exactly like that though,” Fitz says. “It’s more focused—the workings of the device actually bear a resemblance to Dr. Selvig’s machines-”

“Get to the part that isn’t horrifying.”

Fitz and Skye exchange a weighty look. “I’m afraid there isn’t one. We believe the 084, rather than allow passage to another dimension in our same universe—like Asgard—actually moves objects from our universe to a completely different one. It’s conceivable that, if you chose the correct universe, time could be moving more quickly there. Like Narnia.”

“Narnia?” Coulson asks dryly.

“Yes,” Simmons says, some excitement seeping into her voice, “that universe was created and lived its entire natural life cycle in less than a century of our time.”

“Narnia?” Coulson asks again.

Simmons has the good sense to look sheepish. “It may be fictional-”

“May be,” Skye says, just loudly enough for the mic to pick up.

“-but the point still stands.”

May nods along. “If you wanted to move a prisoner and you were afraid of him being rescued during transport, you could move him first to another world, one where no one was looking for him.”

“Exactly!” Fitz says. “And if it’s a world where time moves differently than here, they’d have ample opportunity to rough him up along the wa-ay.” His excitement falls off and he looks to Simmons, who seems very interested in the carpet. “Anyway. It fits with the smugglers’ MO. We had no idea where they were getting their high-tech weapons from. Why not another world? One possibly more advanced than our own?”

Grant breathes deep. Another universe. He’s in another universe. Possibly. It sounds insane—about as insane as alien invasions and men coming back from having their hearts carved in half—but this is not home. These people don’t hate him and it looks like they have no reason to either. Fitz is fine; the Bus is intact; Grant’s clearly still a SHIELD agent.

“We’ll wait for the final reports from the clean-up crew down at the harbor as well as the team rounding up the last of the smugglers,” Coulson says.

It’s a clear dismissal but Simmons is the only one to move. She’s out the door like a shot, leaving the others watching after her.

“Keep an eye on her,” Coulson says to no one in particular. “She’s having a tough time.”

Skye and Fitz clear out. Grant’s finger hovers over the screen to track them but then May steps forward.

“Jemma’ll be fine,” she says. “Once she clears Grant—and there’s no reason she shouldn’t given her report—she’ll be on the mend.”

“I hope so.”

Grant taps the screen, bringing back all the Bus feeds. Fitz and Skye are hovering near the Cage, out of sight of the briefing room, but it’s Simmons who catches his eye. She’s standing outside the lab, wrapped in a man’s arms. Grant taps the window. As it expands he can see Simmons clinging to the man’s broad shoulders with her face buried in his neck. He rubs a hand up and down her back soothingly and eases gently away so he can look into her tear-stained face. It’s doing so that gives Grant a clear view of him and he nearly drops the tablet in shock.

“He’s alive,” John says. “He’s alive and he’s a fighter. Whatever those sons of bitches put him through, do you really think he’s gonna let them tear him away a minute longer? Our boy’ll be fine, I promise you.”

Simmons nods and probably says something in response but Grant doesn’t hear it. John’s alive.

No, this is definitely not home.

 

 

**////////////////////**

 

 

Photos can be faked, so can video, but Grant has a hard time believing his team would carry on a prank well into the night. He considers the possibility that he’s gone insane or that his team has.

He could escape. They have to be watching him if they believe this HYDRA theory—and HYDRA? Really?—but he could still do it, he thinks. He spends much of the night lying awake, thinking it over, before his still-recovering body forces him to sleep.

In the morning Coulson comes to him again. He makes apologies Grant barely hears for taking so long to get back to him. There’s no need really; Grant knows an interrogation tactic when he sees one. He’s unsurprised when they transport him to a cold, remote room. It’s featureless save for the impressive console just inside the door and the chair placed in the center of the room. There are wires and readers and shackles covering every inch of the chair. It would be an extremely impressive truth gathering device, if they weren’t about to use it on him. Every inch of him still aches and the headache that built up while he tried to reason through what was happening last night only grew while he was asleep. There’s no way it can get a reliable read on him and they have to know that.

They do, as it turns out. At the last minute May injects him with what he guesses to be morphine. As a rule, he hates anything that dulls his senses, even to pain. He avoids them until they’re forced on him, which is why he has zero tolerance. By the time Coulson and May leave him alone with Agent Koenig, Grant’s world is already going fuzzy around the edges.

“Is your name Grant Douglas Ward?” Koenig asks. With Coulson in the room, the man was all smiles. Now that it’s just Grant, he looks like he’ll use that gun resting beneath his hand at the slightest provocation. Grant just wishes he had any way of knowing what would provoke him.

“Yes,” he says, trying to keep his eyes open.

“Very good. Now I’m going to ask you a simple question, doesn’t matter what it is, you will answer in the negative. All right?”

Grant nods. Koenig is nice enough to wait for him to figure out how to keep his head upright again.

“Does two plus two equal four?”

Grant almost says yes, but remembers the instructions—and the gun—at the last second. “No,” he sighs.

“Now we’ll get into the real questions. Answer these honestly.”

Grant doesn’t like the sound of that. It goes on for what feels like hours. Koenig fires question after question at him, following some up with more uncomfortable or seemingly absurd ones and coming back to others later to check if his answers change. The truth is just as dangerous as a lie when he doesn’t understand the situation he’s in, but he sticks to the truth anyway. It’s easier and just slightly less likely to get him shot.

Despite the haze he’s in, Grant is well aware of the gun and the bloodthirsty look in Koenig’s eye. The man hates him. Or hates the other him. Or both. Are the others the same? Do they hate him too for things he—the other he—has done? Did he hurt them? Did he…

There are questions he refuses to think about for fear he’ll ask them and actually get an answer.

In the end, Koenig must be satisfied he’s telling the truth because Grant wakes up in the same observation room, only one set of cuffs on each arm this time. Coulson’s there too, all alone this time. He sits in the same chair, working on his tablet until he notices Grant’s woken up.

He smiles his buck-up-champ smile, the one he only wears when the shit’s really hit the fan.

“The transcript from your interview was interesting,” he says. “I’ll have a few questions for you later about it but for now, I imagine you have a few of your own.”

There’s one question, the most important question, that sits on the tip of his tongue. He bites it down, not ready for the answer yet. Instead he says only, “HYDRA?”

Coulson sighs and tells him.

 

**////////////////////**

 

Fitz holds out a hand. “The- um …” He snaps his fingers impatiently as he tries to find the word.

Grant grabs the nearest tool off the tabletop and hands it to him.

“No!” Fitz says indignantly, like it should be obvious. “The- the-”

Grant tries another tool.

“Thank you,” Fitz says, rolling his eyes as he goes back to work. He’s building something meant to control the 084 that landed Grant here. It’s slow going with his … difficulties, but at least it’s going.

The truth is, Grant feels like he needs to be here. He didn’t drop Fitz to the bottom of the ocean—that’s what May tells him happened—but a different version of him did. Maybe he has no reason to feel guilty for his doppelganger’s actions but he does. And if he can help Fitz, he might as well. There’s not much else he can do given the restrictions they’ve placed on him here.

Ankle cuffs with a decently long chain, wrists bound directly together, and a requirement that he always be with someone else when he’s not in the sparse quarters they’ve given him. It’s generous. Grant wears the face of the man who betrayed them all. He’s not sure he would be able to give as much in their place.

“I know,” Fitz mutters softly. “Completely useless.”

Grant can’t help but glance over Fitz’s bent head, thinking he’ll see Jemma standing there. He doesn’t, just like the dozen other times Fitz has forgotten Grant’s presence and begun talking to … to whoever he thinks is carrying on the other half of the conversation. Grant doesn’t ask who it is.

“How’s it going in here?” Trip asks from the door.

“Good,” Grant says. “He can’t remember the names of the tools he wants but it doesn’t matter anyway because I tap out at telling a Phillips from a flathead.”

Fitz gives him a look that’s heavy with disappointment. Grant only smiles back. It’s a familiar reaction from an unfamiliar man.

“So you’re not necessary,” Trip says, a clear implication that Grant is very necessary elsewhere.

“No,” Fitz says. He’s already back to the machine and doesn’t even look up as he waves them away. “Please take him. He- he uh-”

Grant climbs carefully to his feet; he’s already fallen face-first thanks to the ankle cuffs once since getting them, he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself a second time.

“He dumbs down the whole room!” Fitz finishes.

Grant pats him on the back as he passes by. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Fitz shrugs him off impatiently and Grant falls into step beside Trip.

“Mission?” Grant asks. He’s not exactly eager to get back into the field after his last mission, but if it’ll take his mind off just where he is and where he isn’t, he’ll happily go out there.

“Easy one.” Trip slaps him on the back. “Assuming you’re as good at flirting as the evil version of you.”

“Depends on how far I have to take it.”

Trip slows a little at the lab door, giving Grant a long look. Whatever he sees satisfies him at least.

“That’s cool. Gotta have standards. And honestly, it kinda sets you apart. You okay to take the stairs?”

Trip is Grant’s favorite, which is honestly a huge surprise. He’s Grant’s best friend back home so he should be the most difficult to get along with here. But it seems Trip is Trip no matter what universe they’re in. He’s still the same unflinchingly kind person Grant’s known for years. It’s clear he’s making an effort to keep it up with him now but that’s only further proof that he’s just as good as his counterpart.

They make it to Coulson’s office eventually and Grant gratefully leans against one of the many desks. Navigating with the chain is like learning to walk all over again, something Grant’s pretty much doing already with his injuries.

“Sofia Wallace,” Coulson says and a holographic photo of the woman appears in the center of the room. Sweet is the first word that comes to mind. She’s mid-twenties and looks like she just stepped out of some middle class, suburban utopia. “Second year at Colombia Law. Donates regularly to charity. Been sitting on the Henderson Foundation’s board since she was nineteen.”

“Great in bed,” Hunter says, earning scowls from the rest of the room. There’s no version of him that Grant knows back home, so getting along with him should be easy. Should. Hunter doesn’t exactly make it that way.

Coulson turns to Grant. “That’s why we need you. Bernard Wallace, Sofia’s father, is pretty much his daughter’s opposite. He’s a white collar criminal and we have intel that he’s moving sensitive cargo for HYDRA, hiding it in his own home until the heat dies down.”

“You need someone to seduce their way into the house,” Grant says.

Coulson nods and brings up a layout of the mansion. “We’ve got minimal manpower these days and everyone but you and Hunter have skills that are needed elsewhere. And according to him, his previous relationship with the target would be a deterrent.”

“I still don’t see why I can’t do it,” Skye says.

“Sorry,” Hunter says, “but she doesn’t go for that sort of thing. Or she didn’t when we dated.”

“If anything were going to turn her off of men,” Mack mutters.

“I don’t mean like that!” Skye yells over the building argument. “I mean become her friend. It could work.”

“It’s also likely to take longer,” May says. “Seduction, the traditional kind, is the quickest route in.”

Coulson turns the map of the house so it’s sitting upright. “Get in, search the lower levels for the cargo, and report back. Simple.”

“I don’t know how things are in this universe, sir,” Grant says, “but in mine, when we say something’s gonna be ‘simple’ it usually turns out to be anything but.”

“Which is why you’ll be in constant communication. Don’t worry, this isn’t our first rodeo.”

He’s really only digging the hole deeper with that one but Grant can’t help his smile. Coulson’s pretty much a lame dad everywhere.

Grant’s dismissed soon after that. The real mission will be getting the cargo out of Wallace’s house once Grant locates it. If they need him for that part of it, they’ll brief him when it comes up.

Koenig escorts him back to the lab and then leaves him. He’s another person Grant’s never met but where Hunter is friendly and annoying, Koenig barely gives him the time of day. Actually, he refused to do even that the one time Grant asked.

“That’s for you,” Fitz says the moment Koenig’s gone. He points to a nearby lab table, topped only with a small, plastic box. Grant picks it up cautiously. Inside is a large ring with a blue stone set in it.

“Thanks,” Grant says dryly, “but I’m not really a jewelry kind of guy.” He resists the urge to reach for his neck. He’s still on mission, even if it’s not the one he was assigned, meaning what he’s reaching for won’t be there.

“I heard you talking to Trip.” Fitz still has his head bent over the machine so Grant can barely hear him, even in the quiet of the lab. “Said you didn’t like to- to go too far. There’s an injector on the underside. Press it to her skin and press the stone. It’ll knock her out.”

Grant turns the ring in his hand. Fitz has more reason than any of them to distrust him after what the other Grant did here. That he’d go out of his way to set this up for Grant after all that, makes it all the more thoughtful.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Fitz shrugs awkwardly. “Just doing my part. Can’t have you mucking up the mission because you’re too prudish to do it right.”

Grant puts the ring on and reclaims his seat near Fitz while he waits for someone to collect him for the mission.

 

 

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

 

 

Simmons’ eyes fall immediately on the tablet when she enters the med-pod.

“Skye gave you that, did she?” she asks. She’s looking better. Grant wouldn’t even know she was crying on John’s shoulder a few minutes ago if he hadn’t seen it for himself. And what is going on there anyway? Simmons and John being chummy? How does that happen?

He shrugs, unrepentant, and Simmons shakes her head ruefully. She looks over the readouts from the various machines he’s hooked up to and tugs nervously at something hidden beneath her collar. She’s avoiding looking at him, probably because of his injuries. There’s no telling what the hell’s been going on in this universe but she’s still the team’s acting medic and, apparently, he’s a member of the team. She cares what happens to him.

She sighs heavily, some of the tension leaving her. “I suppose I’m not really fooling anyone, am I?”

He doesn’t answer. If she’s anything like his Simmons, he won’t have to.

She laughs a little and begins pulling at the strap holding his left wrist. “You’re not cleared for duty,” she says sternly, “but you certainly don’t need these anymore. And you don’t have to stay down here.”

Her tone tells him there’s something he’s missing, something the other him would understand. He’s saved from giving the wrong response by the door opening.

“Agents,” John says. He’s all swagger as he walks into the room, practically filling it with his presence. “Sorry if I’m interrupting anything medically urgent.”

There’s a joke there, one Grant doesn’t get. Simmons does though. She tries and fails to hold back a smile and give John a stern look. John undoes Grant’s other restraint and Simmons, with nothing better to do, goes back to fiddling with the necklace hidden beneath her shirt. It’s a nervous tick that Grant’s version of her doesn’t have and he files it away for future reference.

“I won’t stay long,” John says.

Grant isn’t sorry to hear that. This John is already different than his. He’s all smiles without the bitterness Grant’s so used to seeing in him. But he’s still wearing the face of the man who built Grant into a monster. He’s also the most likely to realize there’s something off about him, even with the torture the others seem to think he endured. The sooner John’s gone, the better.

John slaps Grant’s shoulder fondly. “I just wanted to see for myself that you were awake. Glad to have you back, son.”

He seems genuinely moved by Grant’s safe return but it could just as easily be a front. If Grant’s mission here is the same as it was back home, John needs him to help find the GH-325. Still, Grant—no matter which universe he’s from—has to sell this reunion.

“Glad to be back, sir.”

John squeezes his shoulder before stepping away. “I’d love to stay longer, but I’ve gotta hunt down those bastards who did this to you. Speaking of, Agent Ward?”

Grant perks up, ready for an order, but it’s Simmons who speaks.

“Yes, sir?”

Grant’s world stops as several odds and ends snap abruptly into place. He barely hears John asking for more of some chemical compound. Simmons has pulled the necklace she wears from beneath her shirt. It’s two necklaces actually; one with a delicate, feminine chain and the other a ball chain. Hanging from each are rings that she twists between her fingers.

John slips out without Grant’s notice. He can’t seem to pull his eyes away from Simmons—from _Ward_.

She took his name? Really?

She’s got a fond expression on her face—seriously, she likes John?—when she turns back to him. She follows his gaze and starts.

“Oh! I cannot believe I forgot!” She hurriedly untangles the ball chain from the other and pulls it over her head. “I meant to give this to you when you woke up but- well.” She shrugs off the memory of his attack and leans over to settle the chain around his neck. Not sure what else to do, he bends his head forward to help.

She ducks under him and catches his lips with hers. It’s not hesitant or shy. It’s the kiss of a wife relieved to have her husband alive and whole.

Grant isn’t heartless. He knows that when he kills someone he’s taking a husband, a mother, a child, a friend away from someone else. He knows he hurt his team, some of them in ways that can never be set right. He knows when he does something truly wrong by the twist in his gut, however faint it may be after years spent building up resistance to it. And he’s definitely feeling that twist now. But he’s already too deep to admit who he is—which likely will only gain him a padded cell in the Fridge—and he consoles himself with the fact that not kissing Sim- War- _Jemma_ back will hurt her as much as the truth.

He cups her face in his hands, gently cradling her to him even as he matches her fervor. This is, after all, Jemma. Overwhelmed as she may be by his survival, she’s still her. The thought barely forms in his mind when the mattress shifts and her slight weight settles over him. She’s straddling him. In his hospital bed. He may never have entertained carnal thoughts about Simmons back home, but this version is quickly overriding all his pure thoughts about her. She grinds against him and his hips jerk upwards. He grabs hers to keep her steady. She grins against his mouth and leans her forehead against his.

“I should,” she pants, “probably get your release paperwork finished.”

“Uh huh,” he says because he’s not really up for real words at the moment.

She climbs off him gracefully enough that he has to wonder if she’s done this before. She runs a hand along his jaw as she steps away and keeps her eyes on him all the way out the door. She’s smiling; a real, true, absolutely brilliant smile.

His heart pounds in his chest and it’s not just from their make-out. He can’t remember the last time just his presence was enough to make someone so happy.

 

 

**////////////////////**

 

 

Grant runs into Sofia at her favorite coffee place. He orders the last of her favorite scone and lets her convince him to trade her. That night he goes to a local playhouse and sits in the row in front of her, just the right distance away so she can recognize his profile. She insists on taking him out after—to make up for the scone she stole, she says.

She makes it easy. He’s dressed the part of a young man of influence and she’s seen him display taste similar to her own twice already. After they cover the boring bits—school and work and family—she swings them back around to art and he casually mentions he’s a fan of Lauper. He’s not her favorite, it turns out, but she’s already enamored enough of Grant that it doesn’t stop her mentioning her father owns a piece.

He should come over the next day, if he has time.

He can certainly make some. For Lauper, of course.

He holds her gaze and she blushes deeply. He pays the check, despite her insistence, and walks her to her car before ducking into a nearby alleyway.

The door to the van hidden in the shadows slides open as he approaches.

“Smooth, Romeo,” Skye says.

“I had her in bed by now,” Hunter says.

“Yeah, well.” Grant tears his earpiece out and tosses it to Skye as he hunkers down in the tight space of the van. Just the three of them would be a close fit but with all the supplies they’ve brought along there’s barely room to breathe.

Skye barely catches the earpiece and doesn’t bother to hide her surprise. He’s moping and broody and he knows it but he justifies it to himself because he’s gotta get it out of his system by tomorrow. He can’t be like this with Sofia and he’ll need to be on his toes. He slams his head back against the van wall.

“Something you wanna talk about there?” Skye asks cautiously.

“No,” Grant says curtly and then sighs. He may not wanna talk about it, but he has to explain his behavior somehow. “I’m not … comfortable with the seduction missions these days. I haven’t even been on one in months.”

“Failure to perform?” Hunter asks. Grant knows he’s just trying to lighten the mood and strenuously reminds himself of that fact several times.

“Was it Lorelei?” Skye asks softly.

Hunter takes Grant’s shocked expression as a confirmation. “Ohhh, bad break-up? Guess you’ve got more in common with our boy than I thought.”

Skye doesn’t take her eyes off Grant as she answers Hunter. “No. Lorelei was an alien. She … she used her powers to brainwash our Ward. It was a few months ago,” she finishes lamely, as if that would explain it.

“Lorelei didn’t get me. I never even got near her when she wasn’t collared. But you’re kind of right. Some things happened with that whole mess …” He runs a hand over his face and down his neck, wishing he’d find his wedding ring hanging there. “It’s not important,” he forces himself to say, “I’ll get the job done.”

 

**////////////////////**

 

The Bus is parked outside of town on a plot of land that, if the state of the for sale sign is any indication, has been undisturbed for at least a decade. At first Grant was happy to see the Bus, this piece of home preserved in an alien world. And then he went inside.

“It kind of sustained some damage during that whole HYDRA thing,” Skye said.

And Grant said, “It’s fine,” because he should have expected it, really. The Bus was just like everything—everyone—else. So familiar on the outside but so completely different once he took a closer look.

He stands aimlessly in the lounge, unsure of where to go. May’s already gone to the cabin. She’s taking the room up there just in case they have to make a quick getaway in the night. Trip’s still off on his own part of the assignment but there are plenty of rooms even if he comes back. The trouble is, which one to take?

“Dibs on the couch!” Hunter yells and his duffle goes flying past Grant’s head to land on the only part of the sitting area that survived HYDRA’s attack.

“What about you?” Skye asks. She’s holding cuffs awkwardly between her hands. He’s allowed on the mission out of necessity, but they don’t trust him yet.

Grant looks around. He’s sure that other him had a room here, the sensible thing would be to sleep there but he’s honestly not sure he can. He’s been walking a very narrow road here. When the others look at him with suspicion in their eyes, he ignores who they are. When they smile and laugh and talk to him like he’s their friend, he ignores where he is. But if he goes through that door and finds nothing but his own room, there’s no pretending that away. He won’t be able to call this a mission or normality. He’ll be face to face with where he is and where he isn’t. He’s not sure he can handle that.

“Ward?” Skye asks gently, reminding Grant that she’s waiting for an answer.

There isn’t, he realizes, any way of knowing if the room layouts are the same here as they were back home. He hopes they are and steps up to the wrong door. “My room—or his—I guess.”

Skye stutters over an awkward objection but he’s already inside. The room is bare, all personal belongings removed, but it still smells faintly of Jemma. It’s all Grant can do to lay down on the perfectly made bed and hold his hand out. Skye doesn’t point out his apparent mistake, for which he’s grateful. If she’d insisted he move to his actual room, he wouldn’t have been able to explain himself. She leaves him cuffed to a handle embedded in the wall—the kind that wouldn’t do any good in an emergency but that would make the insurance people happy—and tells him to just yell if he needs anything.

It takes a long time for she and Hunter to shut up and go to bed. Mostly they talk too quietly for him to hear but he can make out his name a time or two. When they finally wander off, Grant twists over as best he can and buries his face in Jemma’s pillow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to being unfinished, this takes place in the same universe (heh) as [mind if I sleep here tonight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552227/chapters/8010468), a drabble I wrote way back in 2015 and posted in hopes it'd get me to wrap this up. It obviously did not work but that drabble will give you some idea of the direction this was headed.


End file.
